Our Brother's Keeper
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Gift fic for carinims01, who requested that Merlin have a nightmare during a bad storm and Arthur be there to comfort him. Featuring sick/scared Merlin, worried/protective Arthur, and more than a little brotherly love. Set after my fic The Voice in the Dream.
1. Chapter 1

_First off, let me just say that all you fine people who have sent me messages: I am going to answer you. Eventually. I promise. I still love talking to all of you, and I do feel awful, if that justifies anything.  
Now that that's out of the way (hehe), this fic is a gift for **carinims01**, who requested a post-The Voice in the Dream fic where Merlin has a nightmare about his past and Arthur is there to comfort him. It's also a gift to myself, because I had the idea for some simple, heart-touching hurt/comfort via sick!Merlin, and so I took the chance to wrap up two fics into one. Hope you like it, **carinims01**, even though it is a little extra than what you requested. :)  
For those who don't know me as a writer here, you might want to check out my fic The Voice in the Dream before you read this, because there are elements that won't make sense unless you know the history of the story. (This setting is about three weeks after Arthur and Merlin battle Morgana and Aithusa and destroy Excalibur.)  
I think that's about it. Oh, and also, my mom, sisters, and I are moving into a really old house, and my room is going to be at one end by itself; it has a metal, spiral staircase leading up to it and a built-in desk and an outside balcony. Oh, yes.  
Hope you enjoy the story!_

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"_He had dreamt only during thunderstorms, when the atmosphere was charged and livid with the energy. Mostly, storms only brought nightmares."_  
~part ii, The Voice in the Dream (found on my profile)

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**Our Brother's Keeper**

"Do you want any more to drink, Colin?"

Merlin, at the soft inquiry close to his ear, looked up from where he had been toying aimlessly with the cooked vegetables on his plate.

"No, thanks, Gwen," he answered with a little smile over his shoulder, as the sound of Elyan's happy laughter erupted in the background from the other side of the restaurant table and was joined by Arthur's beside him.

"You've hardly eaten," the gentle young woman—so very, very young in his old eyes, just the same as she was when she was a fresh, strong queen—noted with a glance down into his dish, as she laid her hand with unconscious affection upon his shoulder. "If you didn't like it, I can go into the back and get together your usual. It won't hurt my feelings at all if you tell me the recipe wasn't very good; it was just a little something Aunt Gemma and I threw together."

"Oh, that's nice of you," he said quickly—as quickly as his sluggish mind would let him anyway—and with honest gratitude, "but it was actually delicious. I'm just not very hungry tonight."

He looked back down and continued to shift the asparagus and red peppers with his fork, and so he did not see it when Guinevere looked at him with some uncomprehending emotion that was mixed with a bit of concern, because Merlin always loved whatever she made and oftentimes finished his plate before even Arthur. (Though her new boyfriend had had at first insisted she needn't work at her aunt's café any longer, because she was his one and only girl and he would take care of her always from now on, she actually enjoyed it even more now that she got to wait on her beloved king and some of their greatest friends at least three times a week, so far.)

"All right, then," she said acceptingly at Merlin's words, and she started to let it go at that and gather up the rest of the empty dishes from their table, but then her concern for their dear warlock won out and she added in a low voice, "Merlin, are you all right? You're a bit pale."

Merlin seemed slightly surprised, and when he smiled at her again, now that she was looking, his smile did look rather weary.

"I just haven't been feeling…normal today," he admitted softly, so as not to interrupt the conversation going on between Elyan and Arthur at the table with him, but of course Arthur was always close enough to him these days to hear nearly anything he said (not that he was complaining; it was really a nice feeling, considering all the lonely centuries he'd waited).

"What's wrong, Col?" the Once and Future King (who was, perhaps, not a king in name any longer, but would forever be in heart) asked from his other side.

Merlin resisted the urge to roll his eyes so that his friends would not think it was directed at them. He'd been hoping since he'd awoken that morning that he would get through the day without having attention drawn to this very unusual feeling in the pit of his stomach. Of course, he had been feeling increasingly worse for the past two hours, since the day had begun to slow and tiredness started seeping in, so he really couldn't expect perceptive Guinevere not to see how quiet he was. It was only that he couldn't very well explain this peculiar feeling even to himself, much less to those around him who really didn't understand much of what he said anyway.

"I feel…" he trailed off for a moment, searching to choose the proper word, "…strange."

"No offense meant at all, Colin," said Elyan where he sat smiling with newfound joy Guinevere hadn't seen in years, "but you actually are just a little strange, you have to admit."

Merlin chuckled lightly at the irony behind _that_ statement; in light of the past months, with his finding Arthur, and Arthur's remembering their pasts, and their battling Morgana, and Guinevere's finding them, and their finding Elyan, and the Elyan's remembering, "_a little strange_" was something of an understatement.

"Just a little?" he joked, a bit tiredly.

"A little," the man repeated with a playful grin at the warlock whom they'd all come to adore within just a few weeks of knowing him.

"Are you sick, Colin?" Gwen questioned, and the sincere concern in her voice matched exactly with Ancient Gwen's, a fact which never ceased to make Merlin smile when he noticed it.

Then, the old warlock registered what his queen had said to him, and he pondered for another, slow moment until finally he said,

"I don't…know."

Arthur rolled his eyes upward just subtly and regarded Merlin with an odd sort of affection.

"Do you _feel_ sick?" he asked in that particular tone of voice with which only he was allowed to address Merlin (because if anyone else dared, Arthur would halt him immediately and demand that he apologize for his disrespect toward an honorable man).

"I don't know," came the repeated answer.

Gwen bent down a bit and gave him a funny look of question.

"It's been so long since I've been sick," he explained patiently (as he explained everything they didn't understand about him or their strange dreams or Morgana or just anything at all), "I don't even remember how it feels. I _couldn't_ get sick—while I was immortal, I mean….It's such a weird feeling."

This last was mostly to himself; now that his mind wasn't wandering, he felt himself to be so lightheaded that he did not even realize he had said it aloud.

Guinevere saw the ocean-blue of his eyes steadily dimming over, and the amusement in her gentle face was gone as she pressed her palm instinctively against his too-white forehead.

"Arthur," said she with worry lacing her tone, "he's got a fever; he's burning up."

As she pulled out the chair behind her and sat down across from the warlock, Arthur reached over and pressed the backs of his fingers against Merlin's forehead for a moment. (Things like this always made Merlin a bit startled, because in the olden days, King Arthur had always been so hard to show his affections, especially physically; this Arthur had a gentle inclination toward the opposite, and Merlin loved it as much as he assumed Guinevere probably did, being that they were the two most important in Arthur's life.)

"She's right," the blonde man confirmed inarguably, and tugged at Merlin's jacket until the other man was looking at him. "How long have you been feeling this way?"

Merlin blinked at him, not even able to invent a joke to make at all the attention, and simply answered in a weakening voice,

"Since this morning. I felt better for a while, but now I feel worse. Is this how all ordinary people feel?"

"Is anything hurting, Merlin? Do you feel achy at all?" Guinevere, as they all were wont to do, had reverted back to calling him by his original name; in moments like these when they were truly worried for him, the man wasn't smiling, playful best friend "Col" or smart, loyal colleague "Colin" anymore—he was "Merlin," the treasured warlock who deserved their attention and love for all he'd done for them.

Merlin, though he was certainly more tired than he could remember being in a long time, could not miss the abject worry clouding Gwen's beautiful eyes, or that palpable concern he could sense behind him from the men; though it took him rather longer than usual to gather together his words, he managed a smile as he took Guinevere's hand in his own.

"My head," he explained calmly in response to her, "and my chest feels…tight, or something. You needn't concern yourself, dear."

"You're burning up," she said again, despite his (somewhat old-fashioned) assurances, as she settled her other hand atop his hot wrist. "Arthur…"

But her boyfriend (and future husband, they all knew) was already a step ahead of her.

"I'll take him home," he volunteered himself as he stood and grasped his jacket from the back of his chair. "Come on, Colin; you don't need to be out in this cold if you're running a fever."

Merlin felt himself flush not entirely from the fever but from the unnecessary fuss as well. Still, now that they weren't running about the city at work as they had been, he could not deny that he was feeling rather shaky in addition to the lightheadedness. He wondered if this was how all those people he'd treated in his various medical capacities over the centuries had been feeling all along. It was such a strange sensation to know that his body was almost as fragile now as theirs, now that his immortality was at last gone and he was free to move on when the time came. That was a revelation he knew he would never quite get over.

He allowed Arthur to pull him somewhat roughly to his feet, and then shared a rueful smirk with Elyan.

"I'm fine, really," he said as Arthur unintentionally half-choked him with his scarf. "Sorry we have to leave early."

"No worries, mate," Elyan answered with a smile on his own. "Just get a bit of rest, got it?"

Merlin nodded with a grateful smile, and then yanked his warm, red scarf away from Arthur so that he could actually tie it properly around his neck without being strangled. The once-king grinned childishly at the dark look Merlin shot him when he deliberately pulled his favorite black beanie too far over the warlock's head.

"Eat some chicken soup," Gwen was suggesting helpfully. "That always does the trick, in my experience."

"Thanks," Merlin said distractedly, elbowing Arthur evenly as he straightened his beanie.

Gwen chuckled at their non-verbal bickering and felt a wave of affection for her two most favorite men in the world; not for the first time in the past three weeks, she found herself wondering how incredible it was that, before she'd moved to London, her life had been so uneventful and lonely, filled with boredom and cheating boyfriends and an indescribable feeling of longing, and now she was the (one and only) girlfriend of Arthur—the Arthur, _her_ Arthur—and now she and her brother had a friend more special than she ever could have believed existed in this world.

She followed them to the door and welcomed it when Arthur kissed her face gently.

"See you later, darling," his low voice murmured in her ear. "Thank you for the dinner."

"Why, you're welcome, my lord."

She pulled back and curtseyed, and he grinned widely, his breathtaking blue eyes sparking alive with memories from their distant (but not so distant) pasts, when she was but a maidservant and he was a prince, and they had been irrevocably in love then as well.

"Col, remind me again why it took me so long the first time to—"

Whatever he was about to say died on his tongue, and Arthur's and Gwen's smiles vanished at exactly the same moment.

"Merlin?"

The warlock, who they thought had simply been watching them in silence, shook his head sharply at the sound of his king's voice calling out his name and pushed himself straight where he'd been leaning heavily against the wall. Even that little motion made him unsteady, however, and Arthur grasped his arm in instinct to hold him upright, watching through suddenly clouded sapphire eyes as he pressed his palm against his head with a concealed wince.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm fine. Just…a lot more tired than I thought, that's all."

Arthur regarded his friend's face carefully, trying to shield the weighty concern from his own expression so as not to draw attention from any of the chatting customers around them. He could not resist pressing his index finger against the pulse in Merlin's wrist, and it was both the rapid pounding (with the extra, third heartbeat thrown in, the one that existed to pump Merlin's precious magic through his veins in addition to his dragonlord blood) and the warlock's overheated skin which made Arthur's frown deepen even more.

"All right," he said, and his voice was certainly nowhere near teasing anymore, "come on, Col; we're going home right now."

As he placed one hand on Merlin's arm and the other around his back to keep him steady, Arthur turned back to Gwen.

"Tell your aunt I'll give you the money for our meals tomorrow."

Guinevere nodded without hesitation and held the door open for them.

"Of course; don't worry about it," she assured, her eyes never leaving Merlin's pale face. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Merlin started to speak, but his brain was running so exasperatingly slow all of a sudden, and there was a twinge of discomfort in his chest, so Arthur beat him to it.

"No, it's fine. I've got him. I'll call you later."

Merlin glanced back through blearily eyes as Arthur pushed him into the passenger seat of his Z4; he smiled hearteningly at Gwen, who looked rather small and especially lovely standing in the tall doorway of her aunt's restaurant with that troubled expression and that gray sweater with the too-long sleeves. She smiled in return and waved at him as Arthur pulled away from the curb with practiced ease.

It was several moments' time before Merlin realized his vision had gone dark, and he blinked the fever-sweat from his eyes to see that they were five blocks away from Gemma's though it had felt like only seconds. He shifted with discomfort in his seat and moved his aching head so that it wasn't resting against the hard window.

Arthur cast him a brief glance that was certainly filled with concern now that there was no one else to see.

"You can use your magic now," he said, trying to keep his voice low so as not to startle his friend in the silence of the car.

Merlin swallowed and shifted again, swiping the sleeve of his fawn jacket over his forehead.

"I can't cure the common cold," he replied bluntly.

Even though Arthur's mind was heavy with worry at the weakness in Merlin's voice, he could not stop a disbelieving bark of laughter.

"You have got to be kidding me," he declared as he turned the wheel sharply to get onto their familiar street. "Not even _magic_ can cure the common cold. That's typical."

Merlin's eyes, though quite bleary, were dancing as she shared a humorous look with his king.

"I know, it's ridiculous," he agreed with a breathy laugh of his own, which hastily turned into a twinge of a frown as he felt another, tiny pain in his chest. "More than that, though—I haven't been sick since before you were crowned king of Camelot. I can't even remember the last time. I think that this is just my body's getting used to the threat of getting sick again. It's better if I just let it take its time."

Arthur nodded, chewing thoughtfully on his bottom lip, as he pulled his car into the garage alongside their apartment building.

* * *

Merlin nearly tripped over the threshold of his apartment, but he recovered himself before Arthur could find use to get more worried.

"I'm sorry we had to leave early," he felt he should say, as he sniffed and then subsequently sneezed.

Arthur allowed himself to laugh aloud at his friend's sneezing face.

"It's fine," he said kindly. "I have to go over those papers before the morning, anyway."

Merlin glanced over his shoulder, simultaneously pulling off his black beanie and smoothing down his hair out of habit, and saw where said documents were still piled up on his kitchen counter.

"Oh, right," he mumbled without enthusiasm.

"I'll just look over them down here," Arthur told him mercifully, "and you can sleep while I do, if you want. I don't think signing my name is a two-man task."

Merlin tugged off his scarf, sighing in relief and nodding thankfully, despite that he usually _did _sit up with Arthur to keep him company at late-night work.

Arthur followed him inside while he collapsed in a limp heat on the sofa in the sitting room, his eyes closing on their own accord.

The Once and Future King watched his warlock as he rubbed at his face, looking for all the world like a child of three when he was in fact a man of one thousand, five hundred something. The king smiled and shook his head; it had been only three weeks now since he had, as they called it, "awoken"—come to realize all the depth of his own soul, his life as the Once and Future King and his and Merlin's shared destiny. That truth, and everything that came along with it, was what he had always been missing in this lifetime, before Merlin had appeared and sent crumbling all of that security he'd had.

He wondered what he ever would have done if he hadn't found Merlin. He wondered what they _both_ would have done. It was amazing, to look back on everything that had happened in Camelot all those centuries ago, and realize that the bond between them was greater than he'd ever even suspected—spanning even beyond time to unite them again.

As he settled into the old armchair from some exotic land which had become his favorite in Colin's crowded flat, he swiped up the papers to examine and murmured, fondly,

"'Night, Col."

Merlin shifted under a blanket he'd levitated to himself from God knew where, and his eyes twitched beneath his lids as he answered back stuffily,

"_God neaht, min hlaford." _(1)

Arthur propped his feet upon the centuries-old coffee table, content with that feeling of safety he got only when he was in the presence of his trusted warlock, and happy to care for him in return for all the times Merlin had done the same first without cause.

It was then that the rain started to pour.

**To be continued**

* * *

(1) Because if you're like me, you're probably always curious to know things: Old English for _"Good night, my lord."_

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hope you're liking it; I just love writing sick!Merlin. He's so pitifully cute; if I were Arthur, I'd just cuddle him and never let him go. (But that might creep him out, so...) Next chapter will be posted in about a week, probably. Let me know how you liked/disliked it so far! :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_So for real. After all this (in my opinion, mostly pointless) election crap, is anyone besides me so glad that we can all have different opinions, be gay or straight, black or white, Christian or Muslim, and we can all read Merlin fanfiction and have no issues with each other? Seriously. Radicals on both sides need to get into a fandom. It's good for the soul.  
And that is the only thing I will ever say here about politics. ;D  
A couple of t__hings to mention: I had a reviewer point out that he/she found Merlin's two names, Colin and Merlin, distracting. I just want to remind anyone who hasn't that you should probably read The Voice in the Dream before this, because it explains why I do that; if you have and you're still confused, sorry about that. I'll try to maybe limit it a bit, but it is a big part of my TVITD (The Voice in the Dream) story series, so I can't really change it altogether.  
Another reviewer (**carinims01**, love you!) asked where to find an Old English/Modern English translator. The one I use is found just by typing "Old English translator" into bing; it should be the first link, the one that says "Translate Old English text and words to Modern English...etc." For anyone else who wanted to know.  
I think that's everything. Enjoy the sappy bromance and ridiculous amount of hurt/comfort (I know I do)!_

* * *

**Our Brother's Keeper  
Chapter ii**

Arthur heard himself groan quietly as he was pulled from his restful slumber by some unknown force. First, the sound of the drumming rain seeped into his senses, followed by a low clamor of thunder which rippled in echoes. He turned over a bit onto his hip, recognizing immediately the feel of his favorite chair (which was technically Merlin's chair but which no one but him used) and the prick of a paper's corner against his forearm. That reminded him of what he had been doing before he'd gone to sleep, and it was then that he abruptly realized the groan he'd heard had not been his own.

He blinked his eyes open, mildly surprised to see that Colin's sitting room was still dark with nighttime; at once he had reached over and flipped on the tasseled floor lamp (which he had insisted Merlin purchase in the place of the tableful of candles that _had_ been there). His eyes instinctively went to the sofa, where he could just see a mess of short, dark hair above a tightly-wrapped blanket.

He stood up, the business documents tumbling to the floor in a disorganized heap, when he realized the blanket was shaking violently and there were more, pitiful-sounding whimpers emanating from it.

He crouched on one knee beside the couch, gently pulling at the blanket so that he could see Merlin's face.

The warlock made a choking sound and gripped the blanket ever-tighter, hiding his face in it completely.

"Merlin," Arthur whispered, a sudden urgency overtaking his senses. "Come on, wake up."

"_S'il vous pla__î__t,"_ came the answer, in soft words which Arthur did not understand, "_arr__ê__tez." _(1)

Arthur bit his lower lip and tried again, this time shaking Merlin's shoulder while the warlock began to moan even more loudly, as though in some great pain.

"Merlin!" he nearly shouted, as lightning flashed white in the room from the large windows. "Open your eyes, right now."

The only response he had were more broken words, strangled and feverish; Merlin still refused to let go of the blanket but his body began to writhe, as though he were desperately trying to escape something or someone which Arthur could not see.

"_Nous avons_ _rien fait de mal_. _Enfants_, _ils sont seulement_ _les enfants_…_s'il vous plaît_…_"_ (2)

The last broken off with a sob, and suddenly Merlin shuddered bodily and twisted, tangling himself up in the blanket, with a hoarse scream that sent chills down Arthur's spine.

"_Non!__ Prends-moi,__s'il vous plaît__me prendre__! __Ils sont__seulement les enfants__!__" _(3)

Arthur grasped Merlin's face, now pulled free of the blanket, with both hands and wrenched him violently.

"Merlin! Wake up!"

Merlin let out a childlike whine of agony, and then his eyes flew open to reveal sickly-bright blue, horror-filled and so haunted that Arthur's entire body went cold at the very sight. He did not release Merlin's face, feeling the hot sweat soaking dark hair; Merlin's skin was entirely too hot, much hotter than when he'd laid down, the king realized with a wave of panic, and he did not relent his hold even when Merlin grasped his wrists and tried weakly to pull them away.

"It's me," Arthur murmured as soothingly as he could manage, watching as ghosts of the nightmare chased each other through the warlock's ancient eyes. "Merlin, it's only me. It's okay."

A rush of recognition swept over Merlin's handsome face, and before Arthur realized what was happening, his warlock seemed to be shrinking back further against the arm of the sofa, away from the king, turning his body so that his face angled away from the gentle light of the lamp. Arthur released him willingly, but moved to sit on the edge so that he was facing him; he gripped Merlin's trembling wrist when he saw that his friend was apparently trying to push further from him, the blanket tangled about his legs.

"Easy, Merlin," he said. "It's all right. It was just a nightmare."

Merlin, whose trembles were easing now, inhaled deeply but shook his head frantically at Arthur's words, more frantically than necessary, as though his fever had given him some strange rise of energy.

"That's just it," he whispered faintly, his eyes still in the past, face haunted, voice hoarse with tears. "It's not. Those poor children…"

"What children?" Arthur pressed with compassion, for it was clear that, whatever this terrible memory was, his brave warlock needn't bear it alone.

But then Merlin lifted his eyes to look into his king's, and Arthur felt a great pity rise in his chest at the intense guilt there, the likes of which he'd never seen in his dear friend's eyes in all their years together, and wished with all his heart he'd never see again.

"I led them there," Merlin choked out, his voice fluctuating in volume as the fever raged in him and the thunder echoed over the city outside. "It was my fault…I led them to the children…_Arthur_…"

The man's name he choked out, as his entire form, suddenly looking so small and frail where he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, shuddered with a rough, gasping fit of coughs which continued even when he tried to inhale a tiny breath.

When his cheekbones started to gain color, an alarming shade of blue, Arthur leant forward and took his friend's shoulder in a bone-crushing grip, his other hand moving to cup Merlin's jaw, lifting it so to make his choking breaths easier on his throat.

"Breathe, Merlin!" he commanded, and his voice was that of the King of Camelot's, mighty and trustworthy and impossible to defy. "Calm down and _breathe_!"

Merlin's eyes were glazing over, turning dull as his violent coughing stole every ounce of breath from his lungs and blocked his throat, making him incapable of getting any air at all. He cried out between coughs as a sharp pain stabbed his chest and his head began to spin.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice was shaking now, and he didn't care that it was entirely too loud, only that the warlock heard him and obeyed. "Damn it, Merlin! I didn't get you back just to lose you now! Come _on_!"

Merlin was abruptly silent for several moments, his head bent over onto Arthur's forearm, and then a quick inhalation had him gripping his king's hand in reassurance. Two more, unobstructed breaths, and he was leaning more to rest his forehead against Arthur's shoulder.

There was a tiny groan of pain or exhaustion in Arthur's ear, and then, in a small, hurt voice, still controlled mostly by fever and panting as though he simply couldn't get a decent breath,

"They were orphaned…only _étudiants_…students…of mine I had taken into my home in the…in the country. Some had…magic, but they weren't…they didn't…"

"Sh, Merlin, it's okay," Arthur murmured, and he could not help but take a second to wonder at himself, at how he actually, somehow, was nearly _good_ at comforting this time, or at least he knew what to do without feeling helpless, when he had always been so terrible at it back in Camelot.

_Perhaps,_ he realized at once, as he rested his hand upon Merlin's back, _I was the comforted then, and I am the comforter now._

"I understand," he continued, even as he pieced together the feverish whispers to make sense of what must have happened in the terrible dream-memory. "It wasn't your fault, Merlin. You didn't hurt any children."

"I led them there." It was barely any sound at all, certainly only strong enough for Arthur to hear because he was so close.

"You didn't hurt them," he repeated, not knowing anything more but this one truth—whatever Merlin did, he would never harm a child; if he knew nothing else, he knew that.

"They killed them. _Ils auraient dû__me tuer_." (4)

Arthur did not register that Merlin's breathing had slowed and evened until the muscles in the warlock's back and shoulders loosened under his calloused palm. Immediately, he pushed his friend from his shoulder.

"Merlin?" He looked into the man's face, but only two, half-lidded eyes stared dully back as a bead of sweat ran down the side of his face.

Arthur propped him against the sofa's cushion once more and pressed his palm against his white forehead. He swallowed with new fear as he felt the heat of it seep into his cold hand. He leapt up and rushed into the overcrowded kitchen; knocking aside a few glass medicine bottles, half of them filled with eerie purplish or sparkling red liquids, he finally found the old mercury thermometer in a chipped coffee mug.

Merlin did not stir again when Arthur dropped heavily onto the couch before him and pressed the thermometer between his pale lips, hoping it was sterile enough and hadn't been used to measure any chemicals or whatever else lately.

Merlin blinked rapidly a few times, but the more Arthur said his name, all three forms of it, the deeper into his delirium he seemed to lapse; when Arthur removed the thermometer, his eyes closed completely and he made not another sound.

Arthur looked at the reading and felt the blood drain from his own face; he dropped it and yanked his cell phone from his pocket, pressing buttons onto its touch screen with steady hands but a shaking heart.

Far across the city in her own bed, Gwen murmured something sleepily and then answered her vibrating phone where it sat on her bedside table.

"Hello?"

Arthur wasted not a moment as he, as though by inborn instinct, rubbed his hand back and forth over Merlin's shoulder.

"Guinevere, I'm sorry—I don't know what time it is, but it's Merlin. I need you to tell me what to do."

Gwen sat up in her bed and turned on her light with one hand, all traces of slumber vanished at the urgency of his voice.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Arthur tilted his head slightly to observe any shifts in Merlin's face, but the warlock remained as still as though he'd never woken, breathing shallowly where he sat leant against the sofa-back.

"He's very sick," was all Arthur could say for certain, and he was impressed at what little calmness remained in his tone. "He was having a nightmare; he was frantic, almost panicking, just a moment ago. His fever is a hundred and three point seven. Guinevere, tell me what to do."

"_Is he moving at all?"_

Arthur continued to run his hand over his friend's narrow shoulder, but Merlin did not move even the littlest bit at his touch.

"No," he confirmed. "He's not responding now. He's breathing quickly."

He heard movement on the other end, and then Guinevere was stating, no, _ordering_ him.

"_Take him to the emergency room. I'll meet you there."_

The call ended without a farewell, and Arthur barely had the presence of mind to drop his phone back into his pocket before he peeled back the fleece blanket—now semi-damp with sweat—from Merlin's legs and lifted him from the sofa with his arms beneath his knees and back. Balancing him carefully so that his head rested against Arthur's shoulder, the king murmured continuous reassurances in both Old and Modern English in hopes that Merlin could comprehend at least one dialect.

In the elevator, Merlin coughed once, so faintly that it was exactly the opposite of the uncontrollable fit he'd had, and that worried Arthur more than anything. When he subsequently let out a cut-off moan into the shoulder of the king's white button-down, Arthur shifted his arm so that Merlin's head tilted backward slightly; he saw, below the beads of sweat across his marble forehead, the warlock's eyes fluttering, his face frowning just barely, as though the harsh lights of the modern elevator made him restless. He groaned again, more audibly this time, and his eyelids fluttered rapidly as his frown became more pronounced. Arthur could feel the muscles of Merlin's legs twitching underneath his knees, and though he knew so very little about caring for illness, he knew enough to fear convulsions.

"_Gemildge_, _Merlin_," he said aloud, turning his face so that his cheek almost brushed against damp, dark hair, his words not quite a command from a king, but something much softer—softer than even he knew he was capable. "_ðu béo __friþsum. Ic __ágoe ðu.__"_ (5)

The ancient warlock shivered again, but the old, familiar sound of his native language seemed to ease his feverish mind, and he tossed his head to Arthur's shoulder once more as if searching in unconsciousness for the comfort his friend offered. His hand moved up to grip at the collar of Arthur's shirt, and the man realized abruptly that Merlin's trembling eased the tighter he held onto him.

Arthur, as he rushed without stumbling toward his car, kept Merlin against him with obvious (albeit unconscious) protectiveness. As Merlin's hand twisted in his shirt, it made his throat feel suddenly tight to think that, here, this magnificent warlock—this creature of ancient magic, who had done and endured all things this world had to offer and yet remained as good as he ever was…that someone like that would love him so much still that he sought _his_ comfort…it was nearly inconceivable. Although he had had plenty of time in the past weeks to consider it, Arthur suddenly felt the weight of Merlin's devotion to him settle in his chest where it was sure and undeniable.

He cared little that he broke at least three traffic laws on the way—as he glanced to where Merlin was resting silently in the passenger seat, he decided that, even were he lacking in money to pay the ensuing tickets, there were certain things more valuable to him than all the riches in the world. And that's when the weight of his own devotion settled in his heart, as well.

* * *

When Guinevere arrived in the private room to which the nurse directed her, her brown eyes went straight to the figure sitting quietly on the couch against one of the bare, white walls. She did not release the breath she'd been holding until she settled beside him and he looked at her; he was smiling comfortingly as he draped an arm over her shoulders, removing all traces of fear from her, despite that the figure in the bed lay still and pale.

"The doctor says his cold developed rapidly into pneumonia," he said, and he sounded much more at ease than when they'd last spoken. "His fever was very high, but now it's down more and she thinks he's going to be fine."

"That is certainly a relief," sighed the girl, rising and walking over to rest her hand on Merlin's; his skin felt cooler than the night before, and he seemed to be resting comfortably.

Arthur stood to join her at Merlin's bedside, wrapping an arm about her waist and nodding against the soft curls of her uncombed hair. They stood that way for a moment, Gwen closing her eyes and feeling the sleep which had been disturbed washing back over her, warm and comfortable in the embrace of her beloved king; when she turned to look at him, however, she felt a new worry at the look upon his face.

"Arthur, is something wrong?"

His eyes narrowed a bit in thought, locked upon Merlin's slumbering form.

"It's just," he said at length, "when he was having a nightmare earlier, back at the flat, he was speaking French.—"

"He speaks French?" she couldn't help but interrupt, surprise coloring her voice. King Arthur in Camelot oftentimes used to tease Merlin about barely knowing how to speak English properly.

"He speaks many languages," answered the man, and there may have been just a twinge of pride in his tone. "At least six _modern_ ones that I know of, and that's not counting the ones from the past."

She could understand his pride. Brilliant Merlin.

"Anyway, when he was talking in his sleep," Arthur went on, "I can't be positive, but I think he asked someone to kill him. He was saying something in English to me about children—students, he said, that he'd adopted or something—and then he kept repeating that he'd led '_them_' to the children." A beat of silence. "I think the children were killed in whatever happened, and then Merlin asked that they take him as well."

"That's awful," Gwen breathed, looking down with immense sympathy at the warlock she had always loved so dearly from even those first few weeks in Camelot.

"Yes," he agreed, but there was something more, and she knew it.

"What else is upsetting you?"

He bit on his lower lip again, an unconscious habit which she found absolutely endearing, even when she'd seen him as a rude and arrogant prince.

"He's lost so much," he said, slowly, as though he wasn't used to admitting such things of his heart quiet yet. "Back in Camelot, I know that I never really gave him all that he deserved, but now…I just want…"

"What?" she urged kindly when he didn't continue.

A small smile curved at his mouth and suddenly all the hesitation to speak his feelings was gone from his face, and his deep blue eyes were open, his great capacity to love evident in their depths as he tightened his arms around her waist.

"I want to make up for all that. Every time I look at him, I feel that way. I don't want him to give me anything anymore. I don't expect him to use his magic for my benefit; I don't even want him to_. Ic behéfþ hine __béon dréamhæbbende, _that's all, after he came so far to get here. I don't ever want him to start thinking it wasn't worth it." He blushed slightly, looking away as though surprised at himself for saying so much. "Does that make any sense at all, Guinevere?" (6)

Guinevere felt a rush of adoration for him which she had never felt for another man all her life, and she couldn't stop herself from throwing her arms around his neck with a wide smile. His arms instinctively went around her, and she grinned outright into his strong shoulder.

"That makes perfect sense, Arthur," she told him in a whisper. "I love you."

His pleased chuckle tickled her curly (and uncombed, she suddenly remembered with embarrassment) hair, and then he pulled away gently and looked directly into her eyes.

"Please, _do not_ tell him I said that," he said seriously. "I will _never_ hear the end of it."

"I never told him before, did I?" she reminded him, and they both shared a smile at memories of quiet talks in a single candle's light dancing across the covers of their bed-quilt, of learning together how to rule a kingdom and its people, and of gaining understanding of the magic that had created their greatest friend and in turn created the Camelot that all saw as a perfect place of legend. Merlin never knew it, but it was during one such discussion of depth that both King and Queen first admitted outwardly in the privacy of each other's company what degree of pride and love they had for their warlock.

Merlin didn't know that, but perhaps they would tell him, Arthur decided as he again breathed the floral scent of Guinevere's shampoo, watching his friend slumber over the top of her head. Perhaps he would tell him _all_ those thoughtful things he'd always held secret for fear of vulnerability.

Somehow, watching Merlin and holding Guinevere in the silence, such outward admittance didn't seem as frightening as it had been then, and that vulnerability wasn't such a fear anymore. In fact, he relented in his mind, it felt more like a privilege. To have two people to trust unconditionally with his heart was the greatest privilege a man could have. That was more than enough to keep him happy forever.

And that wasn't even counting the whole _magic_ part of it all.

**To be continued**

* * *

(1) French: "Please, stop."

(2) French: "We've done nothing wrong. Children, they're only children…please…"

(3) French: "No! Take me, please take me! They're only children!"

(4) French: "They should have killed me."

(5) Old English: "Calm (yourself), Merlin. You're safe. I have you."

(6) Old English: "…I want him to be happy,…"

* * *

_I use Google Translate for the French, and the Old English Translator I mentioned above for the Old English, so if anything is wrong, it's their fault. ;)  
Next update in a week or less. Review if you have the time!_


	3. Chapter 3

_I still feel guilty for not answering my messages yet, just so everyone knows. I'm getting to them...someday. Heh.  
I just want to say I'm sorry for taking so long! We've been moving the past week, Thanksgiving was last Thursday, my sister's fourteenth is tomorrow, we have to be out of this house by Friday...it's a mess. Plus, this chapter really did not want to be written for some reason; it was being difficult. I hope all the fluff was worth the wait!  
And I always try to address reviewers' questions in a note, just in case someone else would also like the same answer (I usually would). I forgot to address **MediEvil Ways**'s question about where the idea for Merlin's third heartbeat came from. Truth is, I have absolutely no idea. This stuff just sort of appears as I'm writing. Strange? Yes. Fun? Double yes. :) I'm glad you noticed that, though! Any more questions I'll be happy to answer.  
_

* * *

**Our Brother's Keeper  
Chapter iii**

When he first felt himself becoming aware, the scent that registered in Merlin's mind was one which he hadn't smelt in a long time—a decade, even. It was that subtle, smooth, hospital antiseptic that had, in his previous years working in various medical capacities, never ceased to remind him of the color white. But he hadn't worked as a doctor for fifteen years, he was sure; perhaps just a few months ago he would have had to take a moment to make certain, but these days, he always knew the very moment he woke up in the morning where he was, and who he was with. A thousand and five hundred years of waiting, he wasn't bound to forget anytime soon.

It was then that two more smells trickled through to his senses, one sweet and the other sharp. _Jam on toast and ham biscuits_, he realized, Gwen's and Arthur's respective favorites. These were smells that he recognized, and in that, he was immediately at ease.

"Is he waking up?" asked a voice as sweet as her favorite grape jam, pushing through the darkness surrounding him and bringing him more awake.

"I think so," answered back another voice that he knew so well.

Though he started to open his heavy eyes, he felt more relaxed now than before he'd heard them speak. The last he recalled was of terrible flashes of dreams long-buried, of a blazing fire and sad faces and terrible, terrible helplessness. But now they were both here, within his reach, and he didn't feel any of those painful dream-memories anymore, so he didn't stop to remember from where they'd come in his history; he just let them slip from his mind.

"Merlin?"

He latched onto that quiet call and felt himself steadily emerging from his warm, comfortable feeling of slumber. At last, his eyes blinked open right as he felt someone settle onto the mattress beside him. He found himself looking into a pair of expectant blue eyes against a ceiling that was exactly the color he'd been smelling—white. It made Arthur's blonde hair reflect the light of morning even more than usual, like a halo around his head, and maybe Merlin was affected by medicines or something at the moment. He didn't feel quite himself; it was peculiar.

"Good morning, sir," he said, because that's what he always said to Arthur in the mornings when they met in the elevator for work, so it just came out naturally.

There was a small, girlish chuckle from the corner of the room which highlighted Arthur's boyish grin.

"It's about time," the man said instead of answering the salutation. "I will have you know you're probably going to need a copy of the admission papers I had to fill out for you, because I don't even remember what sorts of lies I put in most of the blanks. Don't ever make me lie like that at three o'clock in the morning again. It won't end well, I can tell you that."

"Sorry…" he replied almost instantly, because that was always how he replied when Arthur used _that_ tone of voice; it emerged sounding slightly like a question, as it was that he still had no idea what the other man was talking about.

Arthur, who knew him better than anyone else in the world, even now, simply rolled his eyes in obvious understanding of Merlin's total confusion.

"Just don't do that again, Merlin," he told him firmly.

Merlin's confusion on was on the tip of his tongue, but by the time he sat up in the (also) white bed, Gwen was already at his side. He allowed her to hug him in her own, less-prattish greeting, for he could see by the sleepy smile on her beautiful—if makeup-less—face that she probably needed it more than he did.

"Oooh, Merlin," she said in his ear as she squeezed him with a strength more than what she looked, her tone warm with relief, "you really did frighten us there for a moment."

He was still struggling to remember what it was they were talking about as she pulled back and sat with one leg comfortably under her, her eyes shining in the daylight as much as Arthur's were. His gaze moved around the room—completely starch-white except for the blackened screen of a mounted television directly across from his bed—and he could remember nothing except feeling a bit unwell at dinner, and some, flashing nightmare he'd had. Actually, come to think of it, he did feel a bit thirsty and his arms were weak—muted reminders of the illness he'd felt at dinner.

"Was I sick?" he asked in logical conclusion.

"As always, nothing gets past you, Merlin," Arthur said as he stood up to pour a cup of water from the pitcher nearby. "The doctor said you would be thirsty."

Merlin took it gratefully, and as he downed the paper cup quickly, Gwen told him,

"You had pneumonia, Merlin; Arthur was afraid your fever was so high it was going to cause permanent damage."

"I wasn't _worried_," the man defended himself a bit too loudly to be believable, as he plopped down in the chair beside Merlin's bed rather dramatically. "I was just telling the doctor that I was much too busy to go hunting for a new assistant if you ended up in a coma."

Merlin started to retort when Guinevere whispered, loudly though she teasingly blocked her mouth from Arthur with her hand,

"He was really worried about you."

Arthur shook his head irritably and looked away, but the fond grin on his face gave open testament to the truth of her statement.

Merlin chuckled a bit at them and tapped his fingers subconsciously against the side of the cup in his hand.

"Well, this is typical," he said ruefully. "I've been mortal for only just over three weeks and already the Reapers are looking to enact their revenge."

Arthur and Gwen gave each other funny looks at this.

"Although," Merlin continued, his finger-tapping halted as he rolled his eyes upward thoughtfully, "I would've thought they'd have invented something a bit more imaginative than pneumonia. Aren't I worth anything more than that? A bit petty that they'd try something so _ordinary_, don't you think? Wait—what am I talking about? Reapers don't choose their victims' deaths; they just take their souls….So _who_ doesn't think I'm worthy enough for something more…extraordinary?"

Arthur let out an amused bark of laughter as he moved to sit closer on the mattress so that he was facing Merlin once more.

"I think you must still be tired," he told him. "You were pretty sick, Col."

Merlin chuckled at himself as he realized that, yes, Arthur was probably right. He was feeling a_ bit_ tired, even now that his throat was not so very dry and his eyes had cleared of all their sleep. He had never been very sickness-prone even before King Arthur's coronation, before he'd ever received immortality, but he could—just very, very faintly—remember a time when he'd been nearly delirious with an awful cold, and Gaius hadn't allowed him to leave his chambers for nearly a week afterward. He wondered if this was how he'd felt then, too, or if perhaps this weariness was due to that nightmare that was still tugging on the edge of his dream-memories.

It was then that he abruptly remembered Arthur's voice, whispering through the brutal images of a burning country home…the terrified screams of two little girls trapped on the second floor…of death he couldn't stop no matter how hard he tried or how loudly he shouted at the men in holy cloaks.

He set the cup aside, suddenly realizing that Guinevere was gone from the room and Arthur had moved closer to him so that his hand was almost touching his friend's.

"_Merlin_."

Spoken with just the slightest lilt, the modern sound gone from the name to leave just the ancient form of it on the once-king's lips.

"There was a fire," he said, his words spilling out in answer to the unspoken question; he could remember now, Arthur's voice, speaking to him; Arthur knew of the nightmare; he had been there when Merlin had been having it. He looked up into his friend's eyes—curious and concerned dark blue, but not pressing him for more than he was willing to give.

"There were children," Merlin went on, the weight of the nightmare rushing over him once more, just as it did every time he thought of that day, "seven children, none of them even sixteen years old yet. Three of them had magic; the others didn't."

His mind went back to that little clearing in the forest where had stood the home he had created for himself and the seven boys and girls who had loved him. It had stood so tall and proud in the spring, made of clean, red brick and white trim, surrounded by the blossoming trees and the chirps of free birds. At the end of autumn, it was nothing but a charred skeleton surrounded by twisted branches and haunted by the laughter of the seven dead children.

"There was an outbreak of black magic," he continued, his head bent as the images of two such different times flashed across his mind, "in the village a mile from the home I had built for us. The well had been poisoned. I went and found the sorcerer who had done it; I had to destroy him in order to reverse the enchantment and make the people well again. He was too far immersed in black magic. There was no way to save him from what he'd become."

Arthur watched as memories moved across his warlock's downturned face like shadows, so dark and heavy even after the years separating them from the events he described. Merlin had always been one to become close to others once given the chance; the thought of his having children—and seven of them, no less!—was one which both amused and warmed the king at once. But then, to know how this story ended—in their deaths, perhaps the deaths of all of them—made his heart clench for his friend in a way that rarely affected him.

"I should have known," Merlin went on, and it sounded like these were words he had repeated in his mind more than once. "I should have realized that the villagers wouldn't understand. I should have known they'd mistake everything. They didn't trust me already; they had reason to believe that I was a sorcerer. It wasn't against the laws then, but it was against their customs, and that was enough for the father of the sorcerer to accuse me of being the murderer and convince them of the same."

Merlin shifted beneath the blankets, as though he had become suddenly cold, and he pulled his knees up to this chest as a look of bitter anger passed over his still gaunt but handsome face.

"I should have _known_ they would find the children, even after I hid them. I should have known that one of the blacksmiths was following me after I had packed all our things to leave for good." His expression twisted with a centuries-unspoken grief. "I was trying to make the children happier, going back to the house to get Elise's favorite little doll and Julien's favorite book. I should have known how foolish it was, but I did it anyway."

He had unconsciously curled tighter in on himself, his knees pressed against his chin as he spoke, and Arthur tilted his head and moved his hand just a bit closer, silently encouraging him to go on.

"When they came to the place where we'd camped, they had me bound and blindfolded before I was awake enough to realize it."

In his mind, Merlin would never forget that feeling. Chained wrist and ankle like an animal, blinded with intent so that he would not know what was happening until it was seconds too late.

"I wanted to stop them, but it was dark and loud all around and I didn't know where anyone was. They had four of them—Adeline, Gerard, Noel, and Florence—and murdered them right there before I could even get the blindfold off. They'd been planning it the whole day. They must have been."

He wanted to wrap up tighter in the blanket at the awful thought. It had been so long since he'd thought of those precious girls and boys. Adeline, with her flowing brown hair and her soft words…Gerard and Noel, the twins with mischievous faces and a talent for carpentry…Florence, little "Flo" who was as boyish as he'd let her be and loved to laugh at her own pranks…They had been cut down so violently and without cause, and all because of his own ignorance….

"Julien was only fifteen, but he got Desiree and Elise away while I threw down a lot of them. They shouldn't have gone back to the house, but they did. They didn't know where else to go. It was their home that I had made for them. I suppose he thought they would be safe there, just for a little while, until I could get to them."

Arthur watched as Merlin's elegant fingers twisted in the blanket covering his knee.

"Desiree and Elise were only seven and five, barely even old enough to understand anything yet. Once I'd gotten away, I'd just reached the clearing where our house was when someone hit me in the back of my head. They had set the house on fire, wanting to destroy anything cursed, I suppose. In the same instant when I'd stood up from the blow, the second floor collapsed and Desiree and Elise weren't shouting for help anymore."

He still had it, Elise's little doll, in a chest of treasures back at his flat. She was the youngest person he'd ever met to have discovered her magic, aside from himself. Just as Adeline and Flo were, she was learning from him how to use it. She had just mastered a simple levitation spell the day before.

"I was so shocked by it all, I could not breathe for just the shortest moment. In that second, someone stabbed me in my back." He looked up and met Arthur's gaze, pity in his changing eyes. "The townspeople were so angry at all the deaths from the poisoned well. They were desperate for someone to punish. They were frightened, and all of that together made them mad. That's why they did what they did. They didn't understand. Julien didn't even _have_ magic."

The stark-white blanket curved tighter around his tense hands, his shoulders stiff as he spoke aloud this nightmare he'd buried for so many years. Arthur swallowed, because though Merlin may not even realize it, he was describing Camelot between the time of the Great Purge and when he'd freed good magic nearly thirty years later.

"I thought I could save him, but he looked me right in the eyes, I heard him shout my name—'Simon' was what I was called then, and they stabbed him and killed him, too, before I could even speak. There was nothing I could do to stop them, because my magic was useless. It was saving _me_ instead of obeying when I tried to throw it out to save Julien."

Arthur felt like shivering at the bitterness coloring Merlin's voice, but as it was, he could only sit quietly for a moment and allow his friend to calm himself while he pondered what he'd heard.

All in a rush, everything he'd told Guinevere sounded foolish and horribly shallow. Merlin had been acting so happy these past weeks, laughing and telling stories about all the glad times in his life. How stupid of Arthur to assume his past would no longer haunt him now, just because they had found one another again. Arthur knew who he was and what sort of significance his life held, but how could his life make up for the thousand or more years Merlin had spent watching others die? Did he really believe that he was the only person Merlin had genuinely loved? He was as arrogant as he had been as a prince, if he did.

In a sweep of emotion, Arthur reached out and embraced Merlin, without the other man ever having to move first.

Immediately, Merlin's arms went around him in return, seeking comfort after the terrible dream had so disturbed him, stirring up these, some of his most painful memories, and reminding him how much it still hurt.

"I'm so sorry, Merlin," Arthur's voice said softly in his ear.

The warlock did not stop to wonder at how amazing it was that their friendship had changed so much this time, that they truly were brothers now, able and willing to listen to one another and understand each other's pain without any awkwardness or shame or needless hesitation clouding the way. Merlin did not pause to think about it; he only held on, hearing the beat of his friend's—his _brother's_—heart where his ear was pressed against the other man's shoulder and using the sound to steady himself.

"If there was any way," the king went on (his voice a little too loud, but that was exactly the way Merlin always had remembered it and so that was fine), as he released Merlin and looked him straightly in his eyes, "to go back and change everything that's happened, I would do it. You know I would. I wish with all my heart that you'd never had to endure anything this difficult."

Merlin didn't pull away from Arthur's grip on his shoulders, but he did move one hand to rub at his eyes. A small but peaceful feeling settled over him, past the still-present grief which was finally breaking free, and he said in partial reply to his king's words,

"At least I know that I didn't endure it in vain."

Arthur's face softened at that.

"I'm here now," Merlin said simply, watching the troubled and strangely guilty look flee his friend's face, and he felt the certainty of his statement in his heart. "I'm all right now."

It was true. He was.

Arthur's mouth tilted in a ghost of a smile as he looked down to Merlin's graceful-clumsy hands which held so much power.

"All of that is over," the old warlock went on, seeking to reassure his friend now more than himself. "I won't ever have to worry about something like that happening ever again."

"You should never have had to worry about it at all," Arthur countered with surety. "I know what you've said—that you had to stay behind to increase your magic so you'd be ready for our return, but I know in my heart that you never deserved all of what's happened to you. It's unfair, and I wish…" He looked away, that old hesitation to speak his emotions aloud rising up before he pushed it down, like he was getting better at doing. "…Sometimes I wish that it wasn't you who was chosen, just so you could have had a better life."

There was a heartbeat of silence, during which Arthur could almost feel the surprise take Merlin's expression, and then a firm,

"_Arthur_."

The younger man obediently looked up, and he saw that Merlin's eyes were shining again, but no longer with tears; now, he was smiling at something which Arthur did not quite understand and never really would.

"I'm happy. Perhaps not with the past, but with the present and future with all of you. If I had to hurt to get here, then so be it. I am _happy_. Really."

The man blinked at the simplicity of his friend's statement, and when Merlin offered nothing more, he held his gaze for another moment just to take in that look on the paler man's handsome, still-youthful face and in his contrastingly ancient eyes. Merlin meant what he said. He was truly at peace with it all.

Then, Arthur smiled too, because that was all he could ask for, really. And if Merlin was happy, why should he find reasons for him not to be? If Merlin—who had suffered through so much more than Arthur even comprehended—could look at him and smile _that_ old, mischievous smile he remembered from their very first encounter, the least Arthur could do was be happy with him, and be his friend and _try_, at least, to make up for all that pain he'd suffered.

Merlin's grin grew at the sight of his king's and effectively dispelled the solemnity of the atmosphere, leaving behind just the light, playful air they had always accomplished so easily in years past and always would in years to come.

"What happened to you, Merlin?" Arthur said rather loudly and laughingly, throwing a gentle punch to the other man's shoulder. "You used to find a reason to be miserable about everything back in Camelot."

The old warlock laughed aloud freely.

"Me?" he countered. "What happened to _you_? You're almost not a prat anymore."

"You still think I'm a prat, do you? After I just hugged you and the whole girly moment without any complaint…."

Merlin made a show of rubbing his arm where Arthur had just punched it and giving a pout pitiful enough to convince a troll to take a bath. Arthur had a fleeting hope that Merlin never seriously asked anything of him with that look, because he was likely not to be able to resist. It looked like he'd been practicing it for centuries just to bother him.

"Well, you're still hitting me, you great dollophead, after all _I've_ done for you…."

Arthur threw his head back with another laugh.

"You _should_ be offering me gold and hot chocolate," Merlin ranted on, looking completely serious but for a glimmer of mirth in his gray-blue, and still slightly tired, eyes.

Arthur stood.

"And oranges?" he suggested.

Merlin leant back in his pillows, suddenly feeling rather sleepy and not thinking at all anymore of past nightmares.

"Chests of them," he agreed with a yawn.

"Well," the sound of Arthur's jacket pocket unzipping punctuated his words, "I've got one, if that'll do."

Merlin gave him a funny look as the once-king made quick work of unpeeling the fruit and placed it in his warlock's hand.

"You carry around oranges in your pocket? You hate them."

Arthur settled in the chair beside his friend's bed and tried not to sniff the strong citrus smell in the air, wrinkling his nose up when a bit of it made his eye water.

"It's to shut you up and stop you fidgeting in meetings, Colin."

Merlin chuckled as he ate a piece of it, grateful for the delicious food as his mouth felt frankly disgusting and his stomach empty. He didn't argue, but they both knew Arthur only carried a small orange around in his pocket just for moments like this, to take care of him the same way he always took care of Arthur…no matter if he could just conjure one for himself if he got the taste for it.

He laughed again.

"What?" Arthur asked.

"I'm like your pet," Merlin told him as he popped another piece in his mouth. "You keep a treat in your pocket for me. You did call me your dog once or twice. 'Why fetch the stick yourself when you have a dog to do it for you,' I believe is how you put it."

Arthur listened to him rattle on, hearing how his words started to run together and seeing his normally sharp, clever eyes dimming, and shook his head a bit to himself.

"You're tired and drugged up on fever medicine, Colin," he told him bluntly, because that was always the best way to deal with a sleepy Merlin. "Go to sleep."

"I'm still eating my orange," the old wizard argued, sounding for all the world like the whiny boy he always had been back in Camelot.

"Then eat it and go to sleep, you clotpole," Arthur ordered in retaliation, feeling a bit weary himself.

"_My_ word," Merlin claimed it in an overly-possessive mutter, even as he snuggled up beneath the hospital blanket, proving how tired he still was by setting aside his cherished orange.

"_Limpaþ __ðu __æltæwe_," Arthur said back, because he distinctly recalled that that had always been the conventional response. (1)

As the room got quiet but for the sound of heavy breathing, Guinevere nodded in satisfaction to herself just outside the door. Three weeks of relearning them, and she hadn't yet figured out all the comparisons and contrasts between Ancient Arthur and Merlin from her dreams and the ones with her now; they were certainly different in some ways, but it seemed that whatever had changed had only strengthened them both in mind and heart alike.

She peered in once more, ensuring that Merlin was sleeping and Arthur was nearing it, and then went off with a warm feeling in her heart to get another orange from the hospital cafeteria; the one now sitting half-gone on the side table would be bad by the time Merlin woke up again.

**End**

* * *

(1) Old English: "Suits you perfectly."

* * *

_That's it for this story! I have tons more ideas for my The Voice in the Dream (TVITD)-world, though, so expect another short fic soon featuring TVITD Merlin and Arthur. One thing I have to say...I really like drugged/sleepy Merlin. He's almost as adorable as sickly Merlin.  
(And OHMYGOSH. I just remembered...have you guys heard the news that this is the last season of Merlin? I was so sad when I found out! They are planning to make a movie, though, right? Right? Any info you have would be appreciated, so I don't, you know, DIE OF SADNESS. We have to stick together in this time of grieving.)  
I'll probably post another fic soon. See you then!_


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